Homage, and it's delicate weavings; the luminous spectres of the past manifesting in residual pathos. The beguile of self disillusionment, a jarring melancholy, and the reckoning desperation to redeem oneself to a total autonomy. An animosity between art and existence, unable to assume as clout burdens departing from time ago, agonising without relief. Ambivalence as the only liberty, seduced by cinematic insurgency to make sense of such a mercurial world, one foxed in desire, ego and obsession. Each scene to reconcile a truth, and each indelible celluloid to bring artifact to imagination - such is the magic of film. In such final admission, is where such spectres come in seldom form, revenants of a tangible actuality that bring us back to life, back to quiet reality.